


The Terrible Day

by JokerGothNerd



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 2 Cinderella references, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Binge Drinking, Coffee, Drinking, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hades the chihuahua, Hangover, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Heavy Drinking, I Blame Tumblr, I Tried, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I did it all properly, It started as an English essay, Lots of drinking, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerGothNerd/pseuds/JokerGothNerd
Summary: "This was going to be a terrible day, one of those days when it’s best to stay in bed because everything is going to turn out bad."Oswald and Edward go to a Van Dahl family meal. Grace hates both of them, mainly due to their 'drinking problems'.I also suck at writing summaries. I was proud of writing this though.





	The Terrible Day

**Author's Note:**

> This began its life as a practice English essay. Now I am gifting it to you, as it magically ended up as fanfiction because I'm a huge nerd. Enjoy.

This was going to be a terrible day, one of those days when it’s best to stay in bed because everything is going to turn out bad.

Oswald's family were coming to town. All of them.

It wasn’t as though they hated him, it’s just that they seemed to have constructed this ridiculous idea that he was wasting his life because they keep comparing him to his step-sister, Sasha. The pretty little name went with a pretty little face that desperately needed a good slap. The little witch was the human embodiment of perfection (to them, at least). They would dowse Oswald in questions, like “why can’t you be more like Sasha?” “why don’t you have a proper job yet?” and, his personal favourite, “why aren’t you married yet?” Maybe they did hate him.

He could tell you  _ exactly  _ why he was not yet married at the grand old age of 31: men are complete and utter buffoons. Or at least the ones that his mother and aunts insist on setting him up with were. Actually, that should be ‘step-mother’. His real mother died a decade ago, his mother who really loved him - and they thought Oswald was a recluse before her death. The only reason his step-mother pretended to care was for the sake of his dear old Dad, whom she obviously married for the money.

However, Oswald was quite content living with his hellhound (chihuahua), Hades (he thought it was funny at the time), on the seafront of the east coast - that the sun never paid any attention to - and was happy with his boring little job cleaning the filthy dishes of social climbers that call themselves ‘rich’ at the Nouveau Riche restaurant, which the Van Dahl family avoided due to his association with the place.

A ‘celebration’, they called it. Sasha had found someone willing to marry her - someone who had a high enough class to be acceptable to Oswald's step-family - so they wanted to come down and whine about him being a pathetic excuse of a son. Oswald planned to respond by decking at least four bottles of expensive red wine (to his surprise, they  _ will _ be paying the bill for once), curse at them, storm out of the building in a fit of rage, and then apologise as profoundly as he could the next morning. Not to mention, he will no doubt have a hangover that is not unlike a wasp nest had replaced his brain. Although this was Oswald's prediction after many daydreams, he knew as a fact that at least two of those things would happen. Oh, how he was going to enjoy it.

That was when a rather loud knocking sound, mixed in with Hades’ repetitive yapping, caused his thoughts to halt, making Oswald realise that he’d been slouched, glaring at an almost empty mug of coffee, for far too long. By the pattern of the knocking (three times; equal spaces between them), plus his incredible knowledge of knowing that he had forgotten to lock the door last night, Oswald knew who it was. “Enter at your own risk!” he yelled, rueing that decision immediately as his headache only intensified at the volume. It was only Edward, who had waltzed in with a smile and a skip in his step. I say ‘only’, but he was Oswald's ‘only’ and best friend.

“What time is it?”

“Well, hello to you too,” his response earned him a glare, “It is now five after the hour of two PM, on the east coast. The temperature is a balmy 30 degrees and it looks like it’s going to be a great day to have a row with your family.”

“I hate you,” Oswald retorted to his smirk, holding his head in his hands, until Ed waved a bottle of painkillers in front of his face, “You are forgiven. What do you want, Ed?” Oswald shot him a bittersweet grin, snatching the pills and downing two of them with the gritty remains of the coffee. It was now cold and bitter - sounded like Oswald.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright after last night, and I also wanted to offer you my most sincere condolences for later today,” Edward spoke slowly, pronouncing every word exceedingly carefully. It was undeniably suspicious.

Oswald gave him a sadistic smile, sat up straight, and inquired, “How hungover are you?”

He looked confused, as though he’d just been caught red-handed.

“I wasn’t sat by the television by myself until three AM, glugging cheap wine from the bottle. Don’t pretend you didn’t drink as much as I did, because I know you did  _ and _ that your hangovers are far superior to mine.”

His façade fell as his body slumped onto the chair opposite. He threw his glasses onto the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. Twisting around, Oswald grabbed a decent sized bucket, placing it on the floor between them. “Oh Eddie…” Oswald sighed.

“You know me far too well for my own good,” he stated, with the extraordinary resemblance of a small child who was upset after being told that no, they couldn’t have any more sweets until tomorrow.

“Yes, I know the itsy bitsy details of your life,” Oswald moved his arms forward to cup Ed's face in his bony fingers, his big brown eyes now staring up at Oswald, “It’s been 10 years since I moved here, I’m your only friend, you’re my only friend, and…?”

His look of sheer guilt was more amusing than sweet. Ed’s quiet voice mumbled something so hushed that he felt the need to repeat it before Oswald had the chance to ask him to, “And, after half a bottle of Galliano, my life story comes flooding out.” Unsurprisingly, the same happened to Oswald, but it took more than half a bottle. Removing his hands, Oswald searched in his pockets for a half-pack of cigarettes - another thing his step-family disliked.

“At least you don’t have to go to a family dinner and listen to them complain about your lifestyle and how you aren’t a good enough human being.” Oswald's attempt to cheer Edward up was more a dig at himself, so he continued, trying to change the subject, “What’s your plan for this evening?” Oswald lit the end of a cigarette and tried to make sure that he didn’t blow smoke in Edward’s direction.

“Nothing particularly. I think I’ll have a go at removing the stench of nicotine from this jumper though.” At this, Oswald chose the sensible option of putting the cigarette out. Despite the fact he only did it to vex his relatives, he really should stop. For Ed’s sake, and for his own. “Thank you.” Oswald gave him a half-smile. The taste of ashes and stale coffee made him want to throw up anyway.

“Why don’t you come with me? Tonight, I mean.” Edward looked at him like he’d just sprouted a second head. “Come on, Ed please. It doesn’t sound like you’ll do anything more than play the piano and watch old reruns of Doctor Who at two in the morning.”

“Will your family want me there?”

“Absolutely not,” Oswald realised what he had just said and forced himself to continue before Ed threw the ashtray at him, “But they don’t want me there, either, and I’ll have two people on my side for once. We can have a laugh and drink however much we want because those haughty louses are paying the bill. Please, Edward? I’ll even quit smoking.”

“Alright.” Oswald beamed, knowing full well that it was that last bit that convinced him. Unfortunately, Ed's eyes then proceeded to go wide and he vomited into the bucket.

Oswald sighed and smiled, “I’ll find you some ginger tea.”

 

* * *

 

“How do I look?”

Oswald raised an eyebrow at Edward, deciding it was probably best not to give him a lecture on the how it doesn't matter. But he cared. “You look… nice? ...Smart! You look smart,” Oswald opted, finally finding the right word. Edward had done his hair and everything. Oswald was quite impressed. Then again, he should have expected this. Ed's family were rough on him, so he would certainly want to impress Oswald's. “Do I look half decent?”

He fought a laugh, creasing his lips together. “Yes, your eyeliner matches your jacket,” Ed mocked playfully, then he put his arm out, “Shall we?”

Desperately, Oswald tried not to giggle. They had been standing outside a mildly fancy restaurant for 10 minutes. Oswald's step-family were waiting for them. Well, they were waiting for him. It was satisfying, really: people always say that it's the little things in life that make it worth it. They weren't wrong.

“Are you sure you want to do this? We could always wait a bit longer,” Ed suggested, unknowingly almost convincing Oswald.

“No, let's get this over with.”

Oswald took one step, following it with another, and another, until they had strode through the baroque doors.

“Wait! Just remember: you don't need be pretty like her, be pretty like you,” Ed smiled reassuringly.

“There you are!” a voice screeched in their direction, unnervingly close. “We thought you would never make it! Sit down, both of you. Now.” It was Grace, the prissy, godforsaken parasite of a step-mother, who had taken to ushering them toward a large table surrounded by seven more people. If you swapped Grace with Oswald's father, they would be the seven deadly sins, Oswald smirked at the thought.

Oh, and there she was. The star of the show: Sasha.

Golden girl, Sasha. With her dyed brunette hair (which she would later correct Oswald for, calling it 'ombré’), perky face, and stupid eyes. And the ring. Oh, the ring. A however-many-hundred-carat diamond lodged into a small sparkly band, and if Oswald was being honest, he was surprised they found a ring small enough for her skinny little fingers. She would be on a new diet too, cutting out gluten, dairy, meat, fat, and carbs. Leaving her with a glass of water and an apple, if he was not mistaken. Maybe a leaf or two. Oswald was still in disbelief that someone was willing to put up with her for the rest of their life,  _ and _ want her to bear their children. Snot-nosed brats. God knew Oswald didn't want to be there. To them, she was perfect, unlike him - which Oswald planned to prove very soon.

He grabbed the drinks menu without any hesitation, skimmed it, ordered two bottles of California Zinfandel from the nearest waiter, then finally sat down.

“Oh, how rude of me. I don't believe I have introduced my friend. This is Edward…”

 

* * *

 

There was something licking Oswald's face, and whatever it was stank of dog food. This led him to the conclusion that it was his hellhound. Either that, or yet another stray cat had found its way into his home. The next thing Oswald noticed was that something sharp was digging into his ribs, and that he appeared to be in an awkward position: one arm on the bed along with his head, the rest of his body sprawled out on the floor. Thirdly, Oswald came to the realisation that it was Edward, who was lying next to him in a similar position, stabbing him in the chest with his bony little knee. So, human limbs  _ can _ be used as weapons. The very last thing Oswald became irritatingly aware of was the overwhelming desire to vomit his guts into a bucket that reeked of strong disinfectant. Oswald leapt to the corner of the room, where he kept one of four sick-buckets (that’s a story for another time), only to throw up so much that there wasn’t even bile left by the end.

There was a small pat on his back, then two hands holding a glass of water and some painkillers appeared in front of him. “Drink.” Edward sounded just as bad as Oswald felt. Maybe he’d thrown up too; after all, it wasn’t as though Oswald had been paying attention to everything else other than the reminder that vomit was hard to get out of the carpet once dried.

“What the heck happened last night? My head feels like it’s been hit with a brick,” Oswald whined, turning to look at Ed as he sat on the floor next to him.

“If I’m not mistaken, we drank a ridiculous amount of expensive wine and someone had a fight with someone else. Oh, and Grace still hates both of us.” Both of them laughed at this: as though they could have changed her mind in a few short hours!

“Nothing new then,” Oswald smirked, before proceeding to stand up - with the aid of Ed’s shoulders to balance on - and make another pot of coffee. Hades would probably need to go out soon. Maybe Edward would appreciate some fresh air.

Amidst all of this, they failed to notice a knock at the door and someone enter Oswald's flat.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a voice made Oswald drop a porcelain mug onto the worktop. Luckily, it hadn’t smashed in the collision. The unexpected guest was his father - Elijah Van Dahl, the moron (pardon my French) who had married the witch that called herself Oswald's step-mother. I say ‘moron’, but Oswald's father was the only living blood-relative that cared for his well-being.

“Good morning Mr. Van Dahl, how are you?” Edward went as far as standing up and shaking his hand, which was all very well since he looked like he was going to throw up again any second now.

“Please, call me Elijah,” he returned the handshake as Oswald raised an eyebrow at Ed. “I came to see how the two of you are coping.’ He cast a concerned glance at the state of Ed and Oswald. ‘By the looks of things: not very well. Do you remember what happened last night?”

Now, that was a question Oswald had been asking myself for the five minutes of consciousness he’d had that morning. Oswald knew they had gotten very, very drunk. He also remembered shouting, but couldn’t decide if it was him shouting, or someone shouting at him. Oswald's father took the awkward silence as a ‘no, we do not. We were far too intoxicated.’

“Well, you’ll enjoy this all the more, won’t you?” he grinned, sitting down at the table to face them both. “Last night we were celebrating Sasha’s engagement, as I’m sure you  _ will _ remember. After the two of you arrived, you ordered 2 bottles of the strongest wine the restaurant had and began binge-drinking.”

Both Edward and Oswald gave him a sheepish look, knowing full well that they did, even without the memories. “It was rather amusing, but your step-mother did not find it so. She started ranting about how my only child, and their guest, had a disgusting drinking problem. Then, Grace began to list everything else she doesn't like about you. You and Edward both laughed and spoke back at her for each item,” he bit his lip in a feeble attempt to stop himself from laughing.

“Let me guess, could it have possibly been the alcohol 'problem’, the smoking, not being married, not having a proper job, etcetera?” Oswald mused. For someone so hungover, he was surprisingly sarcastic, especially this time in the morning. He was hardly surprised by the news; it happened often enough, so why exactly had his father made the journey over to tell him this?

“Well… yes. As a matter of fact, I thought I would show you the receipt from last night. I must say, I was rather impressed. I couldn’t drink that much at your age; I would have been passed out after the third bottle,” Elijah produced a piece of paper from his pocket, laying it on the table in front of them. Oh, dear Lord. Talk about strength, no wonder Oswald felt as though a jellyfish were living in his stomach.

Ed reached forward, picking it up for inspection. He began to murmur: “Portuguese Madeira, Petite Sirah, Vermouth, Port… the list goes on. I do apologise for our behaviour, however. It was rather rude.” Edward sat on the opposing chair, sinking back into it. He must have expected Elijah to be annoyed at their antics. Maybe that’s why he was here. Was he here to disown Oswald for ruining his marriage? What had he done?

“Please, if anything I should be thanking you for how you acted. It was the perfect time to bring up the divorce I wanted from Grace.”

A moment or two of complete silence passed. “You're getting a divorce?” Oswald said slowly, wondering whether he had heard him right. Then again, he couldn’t think of a word that rhymed with ‘divorce’.

“Of course I am,” he chuckled. “I figured out, last week, that she only married me for the estate and money I would leave in my will. I can’t believe it took me so long to connect the dots! And that sycophant didn’t even think that I would be leaving most of it to you.”

Oswald was fully aware that he was standing, mouth slightly open in confusion, with a downright baffled look on his face. They had been together for nearly a decade. She was his rebound, almost. It was very difficult to comprehend. Perhaps he was dreaming. People always said that ‘a dream is a wish your heart makes’ - actually, that may have been from an old film - and Oswald did dream of them going their separate ways. Then again, the hangover would prove him wrong, along with Edward reaching over to move his jaw. “You’re going to catch flies doing that.”

Oswald whacked his hand away and he stuck his tongue out like the five-year-old he was. “Congratulations. I think.”

“It’s good that you have such a wonderful friend,” Elijah laughed. “On the other hand, maybe ‘friends’ isn’t the right word for you two. You’re much closer.” He then turned to Oswald's dog, who had been laying by the radiator. “Hades, keep an eye on them for me.” With that, he left, carefully closing the door behind him.

“Fancy that. Looks like dreams do come true,” Ed grinned. Then it clicked. Cinderella. It was from that stupid Disney film. Edward must have noticed the realisation in Oswald's eyes, because the next thing he knew, Ed had started singing whichever song it was from.

“Ed, stop!” Oswald guffawed, but it was too late: he had taken Oswald's hands and begun to dance around his flat with him. Oswald couldn’t stop it even if it killed him.

Eventually, Edward did stop. Taking his chance, Oswald leaned up to him, and Ed moved closer until their lips crashed together. The clash of lips and teeth was slightly painful, but immensely satisying.

 

So, it wasn’t such a terrible day after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it x


End file.
